THE only nice thing about your going away is your coming home again," said Miss Billy to Margaret.

The two girls were seated side by side on the floor in Margaret's room, which bore a startling resemblance to a fancy bazaar. The bed was filled with airy masses of silk and gauze, the divan covered with ribbons and gloves and shoes, and the floor strewn with a varied assortment of hats, perfumery flasks, filigree silver and handkerchiefs. Margaret's last trunk had arrived from abroad, and the two girls were spending the morning at that mysterious and delightful task known to all womankind as "unpacking."

"It's the next best thing to going away myself," continued Miss Billy, "to have you go; and come home with so much of the foreign atmosphere about you. Your sentences fairly ooze Rhine water, and foreign castles, and pretzels."

"Am I as bad as that?" laughed Margaret. "You remember Edward Eggleston's woman, whose topic of conversation was always, 'when I was to Bosting.' Do I give the impression of having been to Bosting?"

"Certainly you do," accused Miss Billy. "You've talked of nothing else since your return. Of course I might confess that I've egged you on a little,—a very little,—for politeness' sake. Oh, Peggy dear, it does seem so inexpressibly adorable to have you here again!"

"In order that you may tell me I talk too much," laughed Margaret again. "Never mind, Miss Billy. Your turn will come in a few moments, and I know from your eager and glittering eye that you have much to tell yourself. Here is the box I was looking for. I put the little things I got for you when I was abroad all together so that I could have the fun of seeing you open them."

"The little things" filled a long pasteboard box, with a queer foreign picture on the label. Margaret tossed it over on her friend's lap. Inside were a number of bundles and packages, two long tubes of pasteboard, and several smaller boxes. Miss Billy's lips trembled with a smile in which tenderness as well as joy was mingled.

"I can't tell you——" she began.

"Open them quick," commanded Margaret. "I want to see if they're right. Everything in the box was chosen especially for you."

Miss Billy obediently untied the packages. Margaret's words were true. Everything in the box had been chosen with a loving care that made the gifts still sweeter. There was a flame-coloured shawl of soft clinging crÊpe, a gay Roman sash, a string of pale pink corals, four pairs of gloves in various shades of tan, a small gauze fan with ivory sticks, some carved wooden animals from the Black Forest, a set of crystals in purple and white, and best of all—two large photographs of famous paintings—the little Angel of the Lute, and the boy St. John.

"Mother has something else for you," said Margaret, delighted at the evident success of her gifts. "She found three long pongee coats for you and Beatrice and me. They are just alike except for the trimming, and she thought it would be fun for us to have them alike."

Miss Billy glanced down at the heap of treasures in her lap to hide the grateful tears in her eyes. "I don't know how to thank you," she began unsteadily.

"Oh, pshaw," returned Margaret. "You'd better compose some grateful resolutions, in nine or ten whereases, which will express your emotions. I don't remember that I ever wept tears of thankfulness over the things you brought me from Chinatown when you went West. I merely received them as what was due me by all the laws of right and justice. That yellow shawl will make you look like a dream, Billy. I thought of your browny-coppery hair when I bought it."

"It isn't the things that I'm grateful for," began Miss Billy smiling through her tears. "It's just that you're home again, I guess. You don't know how much I've missed you, Peggy. You know, dear, it makes lots of difference in the number of friends one has, if one moves from Ashurst Place to Cherry Street."

"Why?" asked Margaret innocently.

"That's just what I knew you'd say," exclaimed Miss Billy. "A thing like that would never occur to you. But it does occur to the majority of people."

"Do you mean to say that your old friends have treated you differently since you—you moved?" demanded Margaret indignantly.

"Yes, I do mean that," responded Miss Billy. There was a moment's hesitation before she added proudly, "Of course, Margaret, I don't feel that it has made any difference with me. Only I have to admit to you that it does make a big difference with others."

"With whom, for instance?" questioned Margaret. "The Blanchards and their ilk? I thought so. Wilhelmina Lee, you don't dare to tell me that the Blanchard tribe can hurt you?"

There was a world of comfort in Margaret's loyal voice, and Miss Billy was forced to smile at her vehemence.

"I should be ashamed of you if I thought they could," went on Margaret. "They are such a punk lot—if you'll excuse my English. We met Mrs. Blanchard and the girls in Germany, and they were kind enough to offer us their escort through Europe. Mrs. Blanchard is a regular Old Woman of the Sea, and we were afraid we would either have to commit suicide or murder to get rid of her. She attached herself to mamma, and always called her 'my dear,' before strangers. She introduced papa as 'the Honourable Mr. Van Courtland'—you can imagine how furious that made my respected parent! And as for me, in a burst of affection, one day, she assured me that any one who had seen me six years ago would never have thought I 'would turn out so well!'"

The imitation of Mrs. Blanchard's caressing tones was perfect.

"She also told us the news of our friends," continued Margaret. "Of course I asked about you, the first thing; and she responded that you were interesting yourself in settlement work. It was such a laudable and praiseworthy undertaking, but she understood that it was apt to be dirty; and—now don't be mad—Miss Billy—a little unmaidenly, for a young girl. Naturally my ire rose, and I replied that I thought it was the loveliest thing that a girl could do; that I had heard about what you had accomplished on Cherry Street, and that the moment I got home I was going to help,—if I wasn't too stupid. You don't mind my telling you all this, do you, Billy?"

Margaret's guest was surveying her with shining eyes and eager expression. She did not seem to hear the last question. "Oh, will you? Will you?" she demanded delightedly. "Oh, Peggy, you can help so much if you will."

Margaret threw aside the masses of chiffon she had been folding, and faced Miss Billy with straightforward eyes. "How?" she asked. Miss Billy hesitated. There was help needed in so many places. Then the pathetic face of Holly Belle rose before her. She thought of the worn little hands that thumped imaginary times on every piece of furniture in the house, of the sad little voice that spent its sweetness in lullabies, and of the starved little soul that was pining for the melody that had been utterly left out of her life. She remembered the unchildish expression of longing for a piano, and she told Holly Belle's sorry little story in a way that was very touching. Margaret's eyes grew tender, and her voice was very sweet as she said simply:

"I am more than ever glad of my music now. I shall love to help her. And she shall practice on my piano, too. Tell me all you have been doing on Cherry Street," said Margaret, as Miss Billy ratified the agreement with a grateful look that spoke volumes.

"Not very much," said Miss Billy modestly. "In fact, I haven't attempted much. 'Settlement work,' as our friend Mrs. Blanchard so genteelly put it, is not in my line. When I first went to live on the street I had great ideas of Improvement and Progress, with a big I and P. There was such grand opportunity for both. I had in my mind's eye a view of Cherry Street, shining with cleanliness and beauty; the neighbourhood united by a community of interests, and the thoroughfare famed far and wide as a model avenue. Now if I can get the Canarys to deposit their garbage in a barrel instead of the gutter, can induce the Levi children and the little Hogans to stop fighting at least one night out of the week, and can tell the street car conductor to let me off near Cherry Street without having him say, 'Where's that, lady?' I shall be satisfied."

"But what about the Child Garden and the Civic Improvement Club? Mr. Lindsay—I shall never cease to call him the Count to my own soul—says that you have already lured him into the work, and are going to give him a gymnasium class to manage as soon as cold weather begins. And that willowy lady at the lawn fÊte who assured me that she was 'the mother of a numerous prodigy, and naturally restricted to her home circle——'"

"That was Mrs. Canary——"

"Told me that you were the inspiring genii of the place, and that you had everybody on the street under the charm of your dainty thumb."

"She ought to see my hands after this unpacking seance," put in Miss Billy.

"Don't interrupt, I'm not through yet. And Miss Marie Jean Hennesy assured me that since Mr. Lindsay came you had 'waked up to the needs of the street.' But the best is yet to come. Marie Jean's father, the old philosopher who appeared in the frock coat of the vintage of '69—complimented you up to the skies. He said that it was well that there was only one o' Miss Billy, or the street 'ud be baked with the sunshine she made."

Miss Billy had sunk back against the bed, overpowered by the assault of praises.

"'I was never so bethumped with words,'" she quoted. "I'm not accustomed to such flattery."

"Well, don't be so painfully modest, then. There's no sense in concealing things from me, Miss Billy. Other people will tell me if you don't. Papa and mamma wrote me the whole history of your triumphs two months ago,—the people on Cherry Street openly dote and gloat over you, and as for 'Miss Francis Lindsay'—if it were any one else but you I should be devoured with jealousy!"

"Mr. Lindsay has been of great help to me," said Miss Billy simply. Her face was very happy. Up to the present time she had felt that the work had been its own reward, but it was very sweet to have it appreciated by others.

"He is a nice fellow," said Margaret. "Simple and manly, I mean, and without the conceit that usually goes with those boys of brain and brawn, who have led their class and been captain of the college football team. Of course, Miss Billy, I'm perfectly willing that he should help you with your civic improvement work, but don't ever fail to remember that I saw him first!"

"I won't forget," laughed Miss Billy. "But you must take care, Margaret. Marie Jean, according to Mrs. Canary, has a 'manner that's tinged with romantickism towards Mr. Francis.' However, as long as he is willing to help me in the Cherry Street work, I suppose you will permit me to use him. A boy can do more than a girl in many ways, and since Theodore has gone to work I often feel the need of a masculine hand."

"I suppose he comes in handily in chastising the Canary birds? How you must miss Ted during the whole day? You have always been together so much."

"I do miss him," responded Miss Billy soberly. Ted's hard lot had not yet ceased to leave a sore spot in his sister's heart. "Still I do admire him for sticking to his work."

"Do you know that he has changed much in the last six months?" inquired Margaret. "Of course he has grown much taller, but that isn't all. He seems so much older and more sedate. He laughs and jokes, but the old happy-go-lucky boy is gone. The change is delightful, but I do confess I miss the old teasing Ted."

Miss Billy looked a little anxious. "Yes, I know it," she said. "I have noticed it myself recently, and I've worried over it a little."

sang Margaret.

"I'm not worrying or flurrying," retorted Miss Billy. "And as for hurrying"—she held up the new gloves as she spoke—

"If I dared I should put on my new beads, my scarf, my sash and my crÊpe shawl, and, carrying my new fan in my neatly gloved hands, should go home arrayed in all my glory; but I know I should die of pride before I reached my humble doorstep. So I shall wrap them up tightly, and say 'fine feathers do not make fine birds' over and over all my way home. Oh, Peggoty, I never dreamed that I should actually own a string of coral beads myself!"

"I wish you could stay to luncheon," sighed Margaret. "However, I'm coming for you with the cart this afternoon, and after we drive we'll come here for dinner. You'll have to, you see, in order to try on the coat before mother."

"Don't offer any inducements," said Miss Billy. "I shall continue to live with you from now on. Tie your German flag to the window as a signal when you don't want to see me. I shall come here for music, for companionship, for comfort, for help, and for advice. In short, Margaret, you'll be sorry, before the autumn begins, that you are such an 'eddicated person.' I may possibly have mentioned this fact to you before, but I am glad, glad, glad that you are at home again."